


With Baited Breath and Tremors

by AmateurScribes



Series: Whumptober 2019 [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Prompt Fic, Shaky Hands, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-07 15:30:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20819630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmateurScribes/pseuds/AmateurScribes
Summary: Grif really thought that when he went over the edge of the cliff, that he really would get back up.





	With Baited Breath and Tremors

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, I know I've been pretty inactive recently- blame my college, which is slowly but surely killing me- but I plan to participate in Whumptober this year to the best of my ability! So here's the first prompt of the month: Shaky Hands!
> 
> There will be no Beta for any of these since I'm doing them daily and that would probably stress her out so badly, so this will be my one message about that for the whole event, so assume for every fic going over that I am responsible for all mistakes!

Jokes are supposed to be funny,  _ everyone _ knows this.

The joke he's playing right now isn't turning out to be so funny anymore.

In fact, he thinks he crossed the line of it being a joke a long time ago. Like,  _ thirty minutes ago exactly. _

Grif's not even sure  _ why _ he even came up with the idea of playing dead. Maybe it was in the split second where Simmons had let go of his hand, and he had gone over the side of the cliff; in between his quick thinking- because there's no way it was an instinct, the only instincts he had were on when to leave a room before the tension increased- and his applying it to jam the Bruteshot into the side of the cliff.

But he had purposefully made his scream of  _ Simmons- _ and he would deny it to anyone who asked if he didn't die before then- softer and softer as if he was getting further away. And he hung with both hands clasped tightly to the Bruteshot, waiting for the others to look over the side, and for him to reveal, 'Ha! Didn't actually die, assholes.'

That didn't happen. He could hardly hear voices above the sound of the water threateningly crashing below him.

The longer he waited, the more his arms shook from the strain of supporting his body that very much wanted to submit to  _ gravity and fall down. _

Ok, this was getting ridiculous. A joke wasn't worth dying over.

"Uh, guys?" he called out, looking up as far as he could manage.

No answer.

Oh  _ shit. _

Doing his best to stay calm, he raised his voice, near-yelling, saying, "Yo, assholes, check over the side."

There still wasn't a response, but he had noticed that the ever-present background noise that accompanied them whenever they spoke wasn't gone.

Which meant that his radio was off. And he couldn't contact them directly.

"Shit," his fingers curled tighter around the Bruteshot, his heart rate starting to speed up. They couldn't have left yet, they- the UNSC was definitely going to come after their asses so- someone  _ had _ to be nearby, there just  _ had _ to be. 

Ok, think. He just had to think this through, and- he was good at that, extraordinarily good at that. 

It'd be easy to turn his radio back on, just a press of a button, a flick of a fucking switch, but-

To do that he'd need to let one hand go.

He didn't really like the chances that he could hold on with just  _ one _ hand. 

The other option would be to try and scale the side of the cliff himself. Not too far away he can see a dangling rope, and if he could manage to get to that, then maybe he'd had a chance.

But he wasn't an idiot, ice was slippery as fuck and practically impossible to get a good grip on. It's more likely that he'd die trying than his actually reaching the top.

So he had a chance of certain death or an even bigger chance of  _ most certain _ death.

Grif's hands begin to shake from the cold and from how tightly he's holding onto his life. He's too scared to readjust his grip, but he doesn't think he has the upper body strength to keep this up much longer.

He looks at the cave side, gasping for breath- he refuses to believe that he's hyperventilating- before forcing his trembling fingers to unlatch from the handle of the Bruteshot.

Once let go, he immediately falls down slightly more, the Bruteshot shifting from where it's embedded in the ice, a crack that he hadn't quite noticed before deepening.

The hand remaining on the weapon shakes even harder now that it's his only support, but he slams his free hand hard against the side of his helmet, fumbling around to turn his radio on- just turn the  _ damn radio on- _

He hears a click, and he doesn't care what channel he's broadcasting his message on, he just immediately begins to yell, "Check over the side, check over the side,  _ check over the FUCKING SIDE-" _

_ CRACK. _

He doesn't dare to look up, not even when he can feel the Bruteshot shift further down from where it  _ was _ lodged into the ice, not even when his trembling fingers peel off the handle one by one because it's a matter of principle now isn't it. 

Grif thinks, that he would much rather die of his  _ own _ volition than the  _ unfortunate _ circumstance of the ice cracking and the Bruteshot sliding out. Plus, the rational part of his brain tries to justify it by reassuring him that on the off chance that someone comes peering off of the side, they would see the weapon stuck in the ice and think that at least he had made an attempt to save his own life. And that'd probably make headlines, at least to the people who really knew him,  _ 'Dexter Grif tried for once in his life, failed spectacularly, moral of the story- don't bother trying at all-' _

He lets go, and if anyone  _ had _ been nearby, if his yelling didn't bring them over, then the sound of his body slamming into the ice below, rocking the platform and causing the body to slide off, submerged into the icy depths that had claimed the life of the Meta not too long ago. It wouldn't be long before the blood that had silhouetted where his body  _ had _ been got washed off by crashing waves.

And the only evidence of any sort of struggle had happened was the Bruteshot.

* * *

Things hadn't been quite the same since- since-

Well, things hadn't been quite the same for Simmons for a while now.

He can still feel phantom hands on his, the grip of- of  _ Grif _ from where he had held desperately onto him. But that only haunts him late at night when the absence of another body in the room rings louder than the guilt that balls itself deep in his gut.

What he feels most often, nearly on a day to day basis, is Sarge's hands pulling him back roughly from where he was going to lounge himself near the side of the cliff, because he only wanted to  _ see _ he wasn't- he wasn't going to follow Grif off it, he just wanted to see  _ for closure _ but he was pulled away by his commanding officer.

They pulled him far, far away from the cliff, into the abandoned base of Sidewinder. 

Nobody understood why he needed to  _ see _ Grif's body. Tucker even tried to tell him that it probably wasn't even visible, having most likely sunken into the water.

But if there was even a  _ chance _ that he could just see  _ anything _ to prove to him that Grif was really  _ dead _ then he needed to see it.

Because right now, having not seen  _ anything, _ his stupid,  _ stupid _ brain kept trying to convince him that Grif was still alive, because when has he let anything keep him down. He was like a cockroach, really all of the Reds were, which is why he needed to see a body.

It... takes him a while to understand  _ why _ Grif had been so adamant that Kai wasn't really dead.

Ever since, everything kinda... blurred together for him. Simmons just can't find it in himself to care about any other dangerous adventure they go on. It's just not the same.

And on Chorus it's even worse, because he can't stop but watch from afar how Bronze Team stumbles and tries to figure out how to do anything under Lopez's jurisdiction- which isn't to blame the robot, it's just an unfortunate pair up, and he can't stop but think that all of those kids would have done much better under different management.

He runs away from Bitters every chance he gets, needing to empty his stomach no matter how  _ little _ he's had that day.

Simmons is just so removed from everything that's happening that he's not  _ really _ paying attention to how utterly devastating the arrival of the Staff of Charon. What does it matter if they all die? They're going to  _ try _ to save the day anyhow.

He does his best to quiet down the part of his brain that  _ wants _ it to kill them all. 

So, when they're in the messed up trophy room that Hargrove's made of all the different artifacts leftover from Project Freelancer, he just disinterestedly surveys the room. His eyes roam over the Bruteshot, and a pang of hatred fills his gut before disappearing completely. 

Simmons looks past the shattered helmet of Texas, and he guesses that this must be the section dedicated to what happened at Sidewinder, and he decides that he doesn't want to see anymore, so he turns back towards the others, looking right past the orange-

Whipping around, he stumbles at the sight of the orange helmet suspended on a pillar right next to Texas'. He walks towards it, hands outstretched in front of him, not really knowing where to place them.

But with shaking hands he places his palms against the metal of headpiece, and he picks it up from under the spotlight.

Simmons feels like he snaps right back into reality, and even with the soft gasp he releases, it feels like he can finally breathe, even through the tears.

He brings the helmet right against his own, closing his eyes behind his visor.

This is all that he's wanted to see, all he wanted to know. Just a little peace of mind. 

Eyes opening, hard in the way that they glare ahead of him as his fingers shake in fury as they clench tightly around the helmet.

Simmons finally knows  _ what _ happened to Grif, knows that he  _ did _ die. And that's all well and good, he feels like he can finally sleep at night, but-

He wants to know where the body went.

And as he turns towards the closed doors all he can think is that there's one person who can tell him.

Simmons isn't gonna let this slip from his grasp again.

Not even if he has to  _ beat it out of Hargrove. _

**Author's Note:**

> It's like, a rite of passage for every rvb fic writer to make their own version of the cliff scene, wouldn't you agree?
> 
> If you need to contact me, you can find me at either of my Tumblr's: @agent-murica (main) and @amateurscribes (writing).


End file.
